Jokul Frosti
by somandalicious
Summary: Hermione Granger was the embodiment of humanity, and Draco realized immediately she would be the fire that melted the ice which coursed his veins. Written for the xmasfic prompt: Jack Frost. DracoHermione. Post Hogwarts.
1. Sunday

_I watch the ripples change their size  
But never leave the stream  
Of warm impermanence  
So the days float through my eyes  
But still the days seem the same  
And these children that you spit on  
As they try to change their worlds  
Are immune to your consultations  
They're quite aware of what they're going through_

_-- Changes David Bowie_

o0o

**Sunday, August 23****rd**** 1987**

"Mum," sniffed a pale boy of barely seven. His slate eyes were clear and glassy, shining brightly with tears that fell heavily passed his reddened eyelids. "I don't want to be naughty; I want to be so very good for you."

A soft palm cupped the boy's chin with understanding, tilting it up so his wide eyes would meet artic blue orbs softened with sympathy, wise and knowing, yet stern. Long, graceful fingers pushed the platinum locks from his forehead and caressed the curve of his rosy cheek. "You cannot be good for anybody, Draco. You have to choose to be good for yourself. And only yourself."

The resonance of his mother's warm brogue swam around him, enveloping him in comfort, creeping into his innocent heart, and weaving into his impressionable mind. Making a memory to last a lifetime. He wouldn't know it then, though, for all his childish attention lay solely with her beautiful smile that graced her lovely face, and shone like the sun. It was entirely for him and only him. He folded it into his heart's pocket for safe keeping and suddenly it was simple to want to be good.

o0o

**Sunday, December 18****th**** 2005**

It was a very crisp evening. The navy spangled sky stretched above a small, dank shack on the outskirts of Gorsemoor. Glistening, pure white snow blanketed the countryside and to anyone who came along, the shack appeared to be desolate, abandoned. But inside, settled stiffly in a dark corner, was Draco Malfoy.

His thick winter cloak was draped around his shoulders, the hood concealing his bright hair and causing a shadow to darken his brow and hide his eyes. He was not a tall young man, but his legs had length and as one was stretched in front of him, the other was bent so that he rested his forearm upon it, absently twirling his wand from shapely, gloved fingers.

He was waiting with practiced patience, which with the chill threatening the very marrow of his bones, was nearly depleted.

He dared not light a fire, or cast a warming spell for fear of being found. Nobody could know where he was save for one person. The chance for redemption was held in the hands of an unknown member of the Order. Somebody trustworthy, someone who had a natural fortitude, understanding, and a kind, but logical mind. A person completely unlike himself.

Two weeks prior Draco Malfoy had decided that he no longer cared for the despicable wizard he had become.

All his life he had done things, terrible things, with a well-placed detachment. He had built walls around his heart, his soul, making himself completely devoid of emotions, of morals, of virtues. He had failed his mother, for nothing good lived inside of his black soul.

Honestly, he had never chosen this lifestyle. It had been handed to him on a golden platter and forced down his throat on a silver spoon. He had been cowardly and never argued, just accepted it readily, with a greedy smirk signature on his pristine aristocratic face.

A Malfoy was pure, powerful, and perfect. Feared by all, and indefinitely nefarious. A Malfoy stopped at nothing to wield the world to their pleasure.

And Draco had never questioned it. It was simple, easy to remember.

But then, that night…that horrible night when his heart began to beat again. The wretched evening he was no longer a boy following his father's footsteps, but a man who held his mother's tear-streaked face in his hands as she asked brokenly "How could you do this to me?"

_How could he do this to her?_

Suddenly a clatter interrupted his thoughts, but he kept his post, only lifting his eyes in wary welcome. It would seem his hope for redemption had finally arrived.

The slight form was quick, pushing the door open only enough to slip pass. Immediately Draco guessed it was a woman. The wind howled in her wake, a swirl of loose snow dancing around her alert frame.

Under a heavy cloak of burgundy, he could see she was dainty and her movements were distinctly feminine. He bit back a snort and wondered what idiot would send a mere woman to speak with a notorious Death Eater.

But then the witch pivoted, lowering her hood to reveal a cloud of unruly curls. She glanced around the shack, her eyes flashing in the moonlight, chin upturned. All business. But then again, that was always …

"Granger," he said curtly, fully understanding why the Light had sent a woman after all.

Her head jerked to his corner and she nodded shortly. "Malfoy."

She did not reach for her wand or show the slightest sign of contempt or fear. She merely gestured to the fireplace and inquired about the lack of warmth.

Draco casually responded, "Didn't want to use magic."

She lowered her chin patronizingly, a mocking smile ghosting her mouth. "You don't need magic to build a fire." Slipping off her gloves, she crossed to the mantle, picked up a few logs from the basket and placed them strategically in the hearth. Diligently she searched the room until an "Aha!" and a box of matches were produced from a drawer.

He watched her warily, his jaw set with annoyance. Of course he _knew _how to build a fire without magic! Any fool would, but he had not wanted any signs of life emanating from the desolate shack. Did the insolent muggle-born witch not understand the phrase: _Keep it covert?_

Nonetheless he let her do what she wished and promised inwardly that at the first sign of danger, he would disappear. Surely after years of acquaintanceship, she knew that he would most positively leave her alone to defend herself. After all, he was callous and cold, the poster-boy for the opportunists of the world.

"Don't worry, the Dell is un-plottable," Granger said deprecatingly. She was kneeling before the hearth, both hands keeping her feral locks at bay as she attempted to use her breath to feed the small flame.

He turned his head away from her then because she was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before, and he was not comfortable with her dirty, all-knowing constitution.

o0o

**Sunday, June 27****th**** 1999**

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a muggle, Draco?"

His pale head rose, inky eyebrows creased together, his straight nose lifted in a disgusted sneer. "Of course not, and lower your voice, Pans, before you are overheard."

The dark-headed girl sighed deeply and turned from the window to face him. Her violet eyes were narrowed and she bit on her lip nervously. "I hate it here. It's dreadful and boring."

"So leave." He said simply and returned to his paperwork.

She tilted her head. "You won't miss me." It was a statement.

"I surely won't miss your silly disruptions."

She touched his shoulder softly, and he turned his cheek to glare at her peripherally through his lashes. Her round face held an air of pity. "I know." She smiled at him. Only a little. "I won't miss you either. You can't miss something you never had." She studied the angle of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the curl of his hair. "If only you had a heart." She whispered and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Pansy Parkinson disappeared three days later. Draco did not even notice.

o0o

**Sunday, December 18****th**** 2005**

They had not spoken in forty-five minutes.

The fireplace was alive with dancing warmth, and lit the small space in planes of orange, red, and yellow. She had found a rickety rocking chair and placed it in a precise distance from the fireplace. Her shoes were set neatly aside, and her cloak was draped over her petite body. Only her pert face was visible, and a tiny, stockinged foot set the chair in rhythmic motion.

She had not asked why he wanted to meet with a member of the Order. Had not demanded to know his reason for being present. Had not shown an ounce of apprehension or inquisitiveness, as he had expected from the moment he saw her.

It was incredibly maddening and he thoroughly wanted to strangle her, yet could not find the will to wrap his perfect fingers around her filthy slender throat.

Draco remained fixed in his spot, carelessly resting against the wall, the ideal picture of comfort and relaxation. It was as though he was lounging on a cloud with naught a worry on his mind. However, his muscles ached and he drummed his fingers on the fabric of his cloak to obscurely concentrate his restlessness.

Then, with a malicious smirk he said, "Tell me Granger, how do you know I'm not here to kill you?"

Her metrical rocking ceased immediately but she did not address him directly. Her focus remained on the hypnotic flames, but her full lips did move and from them came a simple, "Because you are not a killer."

He suppressed an indignant scoff, his eyes flashing to the opposite corner of the room then back to her. "How would you know?"

"I just do." She turned her upper body, letting the cloak fall to her lap, and rested her chest on folded arms against the arm of the chair. She blinked sympathetically and smiled softly. "If you were a ruthless murderer, you would not be seeking salvation from the Order."

Ah, yes, his salvation. He preferred to call it self-preservation. "And are you positive I'm not a spy whose intent is to infiltrate the order and break it down from the inside?" He felt pride at that statement; surely it would plant a seed of doubt in her ever-working brain.

She let out a soft chuckle. "That is what I'm here to find out."

He scowled at her easiness, his gaze probing her face. She was flushed with eagerness and reminded him of something he had thought he might have loved, if he knew how too. Hermione Granger was the embodiment of humanity, and Draco realized grudgingly that she would be the fire that melted the ice which coursed his veins.

He closed his eyes tight and turned his cheek away from her because not for the first time in his life, he was afraid of tomorrow.

o0o

**Sunday, June 26****th**** 1994**

Her laugh was rich, clear, and womanly. Like a thousand silver bells in symmetrical melody.

Draco was aware that the sound should be delightful to his ears, should provoke an amused expression and endearing emotions.

He remembered loving his mother's laugh, but it felt like another lifetime. Somewhere far, far away. It was a rare and mythical experience, yet as he watched her covertly as she took tea with a friend, he could not find it in himself to even care what it meant.

It was the worse day of his young life.

It was the day he found he was completely devoid of all emotions.


	2. Monday

o0o

**Monday, May 7****th**** 1990**

"Please, Narcissa, don't coddle the boy. It's pathetic," Lucius said airily. _The Daily Prophet_ was held at arms length over his light breakfast of fruit and croissants. Perched on his shapely aristocratic nose was a pair of reading spectacles, but his icy glare bore over them at the scene that was unfolding at the opposite end of his dining table. "He's really too old for it, cut the apron strings loose already."

As Draco's head was resting against his mother's bosom, he felt her stiffen, her hold tightening on him desperately. "Draco will never, EVER, be too old for my hugs," she hissed coldly.

Then her hand cupped Draco's chin whilst the other tousled his messy hair. "Why don't you take breakfast in your nursery today? I'll send Zonny up with a tray immediately." Her timbre was kind, but pleading. She gave him her best smile, the one made her eyes twinkle.

He nodded slowly and broke away from her embrace, solemnly making his way out of the room. Because even at that young age he knew her eyes sparkled with tears and he wanted to stay and defend her from the impending wrath that made the air in the room thick.

As the door shut soundlessly, he heard the tell tale sign of a chair scraping against hardwood flooring. Followed by his father's lethal brogue sending out a threat and a curse for his mother's impertinence.

o0o

**Monday, December 19th 2005**

Draco awoke with a start. Instantaneously his body jerked up and his legs swung to the floor. He let his hands grip the lumpy cushion of the couch, a soft care-worn quilt clutching to his shoulder. With bleary eyes, he took in his surroundings and he found he was still in the shack--- rather the Dell as Granger named it. Except in the blinding light of the winter morn, it seemed more homely, comforting.

"Morning."

He jerked in the direction of the sweet sound, blinking rapidly. There, seated at a small harvest table, was Granger, enjoying a steaming cup of tea and a breakfast of what seemed to be kippers and eggs.

She did not smile at him, but gestured at the bowl across from her. "For you, if you're hungry."

He meant to sneer at her hospitality, he truly did, but pangs of hunger stabbed his gut and it roared ferociously in retort.

She raised an amused eyebrow. "And it would appear that you are indeed."

He swore, but rose and settled himself at the bowl. It was bland porridge; he gave her a questioning stare.

She shrugged and stabbed at her eggs. "I don't serve Death Eater five course meals."

And he hated her. Her and her nonchalance. A Death Eater was not an occupation that was discussed with carelessness or over breakfast. He did not understand how she could carry on as if she was only referring to the weather. Stupid girl.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to discuss why I'm here." She took a mannerly sip of her tea.

"Don't play coy; you know why I arranged this meeting," he said gruffly, all the while stirring his breakfast gingerly. Its aroma was incredibly inviting despite not being the kippers by which his taste buds had been taunted.

He could feel her roll her eyes. Good, an annoyed Granger was something he knew how to deal with.

"Of course, Grumpy Gills. But it is my understanding that one does not simply floo Voldemort and says 'Sorry Mate, I've decided to join the Light. So long and thanks for all the Cruciatus'.' Right?" she said flippantly.

"Daft bint, I have no intention of doing that," he said angrily and spooned a bite into his mouth. It was hot and hearty. Tasting tremendously delectable.

"Then tell me your intentions because all I know is that you want out," she bit out. "And honestly, Malfoy, that is not enough for the Order to grant you clemency."

She was right once more, and he realized that she would require more reasons. Something solid and real, something he never wanted to admit, especially to her of all people.

He let his eyes meet hers and said very simply, "I want to be good."

"Good?" Her eyes were wide with awe. She had obviously not expected that.

"Yes. I want to stand proud amongst wizards; I want to know that everything I do is right. I want to feel happiness and love and sympathy. I want to pity the unfortunate. I want to understand why humans need affection and why the poets write and songbirds sing. I want to have a friend and be a good friend in return. I want to work hard for my lifestyle. And I want to let go of the ugly, terrible things that are eating at my soul. I want to be good for myself." He pressed his lips together, his jaw flexed and fist clenched. But never once did his glare waver. "But I don't know how and I need someone to lead me to perfection."

Granger had her fingers pressed to her mouth with intrigue. "Wow, Malfoy. That was…I mean to say…" She blew her fringe out of her face, "Admittance is half the battle."

Draco nodded, letting his eyes fall, unable to bear the look of unflappable compassion twinkling in her topaz eyes.

"If you really want it, I will help you. But you have to understand that this will be a difficult process." She looked down and moved her food around on her plate. "Nothing worth having is easy," she murmured.

He did not voice his accordance, but wondered what Granger could possibly want that she could not easily obtain.

After all, even he could not deny that she was a force to be reckoned with.

o0o

**Monday, August 13****th**** 1984**

Lucius' laughter was deep, loud, and his entire body shook with it. His broad shoulders bounced, every feature upturned, and his grey eyes glittered with amusement.

Draco stood before him clad in his father's robes. They swam around his small toddler frame, sleeves falling far past his chubby hands, the hem dragging in his wake. His father's favorite cap kept slipping over his eyes, and Draco pushed it back once more.

His mother stood behind him, her dainty hand pressed to her mouth, endearment radiating from her soul.

"Tell me, Son, what is all this about?" Lucius asked when he finally sobered. Even in delight he looked down his nose.

Draco lifted his chin resolutely and tried to mime his father's expression, which was rather difficult to say the least, but he felt he managed adequately. "I am just like you, Dada."

And Draco would be so, for the rest of Narcissa's life.

o0o

**Monday, December 19****th**** 2005**

Draco was pouting in his corner. She had made him vow to remain at the Dell until _she_ felt he was rehabilitated. Which was completely absurd, because who was she, _exactly,_ to make that type of judgment?

Certainly not his savior.

"Shall we begin?" she asked.

When he glanced over to where her soft voice originated, he was surprised to find her sitting in front of him; legs crossed demurely, a parchment and a text book in her lap.

He shrugged, because really, he did not have a choice.

Granger sighed deeply. "You do have a choice; I'm not going to force you to change."

Once again, to his annoyance, she had a point. Did she ever run out of those?

"Let's get to it then," he growled.

"All right!" she said brightly. "First, I need to understand. I mean, in order to fix something, one must comprehend the root of the problem."

"What's there to understand?" he said. "I want to be good; it's not alchemy, Mudblood," he spat viciously, immensely annoyed.

Her stare darkened, and she raised an imperial brow. "That was a completely contradictory statement!" she barked before exploding into a rather absurd lampooning of him. "'Oh I want to be good but let me remind you of my bigotry.' Brilliant Mal—." She bit her lip and paused. "I think you should realize that here in this shack we have no labels. Nothing by which to categorize each other. You should call me Hermione and I will call you Draco. Neither Granger nor Malfoy. Neither Mudblood nor Pureblood. Got it?"

He smirked maliciously. "I have the liberty to choose to agree or not, right?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yes."

He let the moment wan until the tension was heavy and static between them, but then he gave her a genuine smile and nodded. "Sure thing, Her-my-oh-knee."

His sarcasm was not lost on her, but she continued on with the lesson of perfection. "So, to understand the root, you need to tell me about your childhood."

Draco scowled. "I adored my mother and admired my father."

Granger licked her lips, her features softening, "I see."

"Do you?"

"Of course, because to all children, their parents are divine and their nurturing is law."

So she did understand. Fully.

Narcissa taught him how to be good, and Lucius taught him to be bad.

But being good had proved far too much work, and being bad had brought him his father's sanction.

o0o

**Monday, April 28****th**** 1993**

Draco was running as fast as he could. Embarrassment flushed his skin pink and his jaw stung considerably. He was sure he had a perfect red hand print to further his humiliation.

By Salazaar's Staff, he would get that jumped-up Mudblood. He did not know how or when, but he would get her. Somehow.

As his pace slowed, he glanced behind him and was glad to find that he had lost Crabbe and Goyle. Quietly he slipped into the boys' loo on the first floor and muttered a locking spell whilst tapping his wand on the knob. He let his body fall against the wood and slip to the floor with the grain.

His mind was racing. He hadn't directly provoked her, so he wasn't sure why he had been on the receiving end of her temper. Besides, when he usually taunted her, she held a cool yet graceful disposition. She used words to slice through his ego, never physical assault.

Draco raised his fingers to his burning cheek and he could still feel her hand with a pulsing intensity. It then dawned on him that he had simply been in the right place at the right time.

Granger had needed a stress release and had only found comfort in expelling it on him.

With a strange, mature clarity that was very rare for his character, he realized that he was needed by somebody, at least in some capacity.

In that moment, Hermione had needed him to release her passion, drive and frustration.

What surprised him, though, was that he did not mind at all. In fact, if she needed him again, he would welcome it.


	3. Tuesday

o0o

**Tuesday, October 1****st**** 1996**

Draco pulled her along roughly, astutely keeping his senses heightened for teachers or prefects as he led her to his work room. He figured they could talk privately and then when she left, he could resume his task. It was a win/win situation, as he saw it.

When they arrived, the door was visible and he pulled her inside quickly. Surprisingly though, the room was bare save for a navy winged-back chair.

"Well, out with it, I've not all night." He turned to her then and as if seeing her for the first time, was shocked to see her rubbing her wrist and tears streaming down her face.

"For Merlin's sake, what are you blubbering about?" Draco barked crossly.

"A few weeks ago…I...I muh-muh missed a period," Pansy stuttered unable to face him, shame flaming her cheeks.

He sneered at her. "Pansy, stop being so dramatic, students skive classes all the time."

"NO!" She rushed forward and clasped desperately at his jumper. "You don't understand! I was pregnant…and when I slipped down the dungeon stairs last night, I…I…"

She didn't have to say anymore. Total comprehension of what had happened sprung on him like a cold autumn rain. Twisted and ominous. And yet, he couldn't acknowledge it, couldn't comfort the empty, broken girl before him, and couldn't even find anger or regret. He had nothing. Nothing to offer and nothing to feel.

He nodded curtly. "Get out, Parkinson. I believe my use for you has expired." and he pivoted, giving her nothing but his cold back as he let his frame sink into the chair.

o0o

**Tuesday, December 20****th**** 2005**

"Tell me your happiest thought." Granger said softly. She had been humming while she made dinner. Moving around the kitchenette as if she was dancing.

He was sitting at the table reading an excerpt by a muggle philosopher, John Hospers. It was from his book, _The Range of Human Freedom,_ and the topic was Determinism. Draco found it fascinating, but couldn't fathom how it pertained to him. After all, his nurturing made him cold hearted and here he was, trying to warm it. But if Hospers' theory was correct he could not rise above it. Right?

"Draco?" she said as she set his plate in front of him.

"Hmm?"

"Your happiest thought?" she inquired again.

"I don't have one. I'm not Peter-fucking-Pan." He glanced up with aggravation; he really loathed being disturbed while he was studying.

"Obviously." There it was, another eye-roll that shook his core. She pouted at him momentarily and then sat beside him and began to eat. "My happiest thought is Hogwarts. Whenever I think about it, I feel as if I'm infallible."

"Why am I not surprised?" he said drolly. "Do you really agree with Hospers? Because if so, it would seem I'm a lost cause."

"Yes, I do." She said it a bit too quickly for his liking.

And something clicked in him. He felt…he just felt something indefinable. But, gods, he _Felt_ again. Although it may have only been an errant beat of his heart.

Granger paused her dining and stared at him. Worry etched over her face. She began to reach for him affectionately, but caught herself and promptly retracted her hand. "What's wrong?"

"I'm a lost cause, that's what you think, yeah?" he hissed dangerously.

"What? No." Her brows swept together in confusion.

"Then explain why you are having me read this rubbish." He tossed the papers at her.

"You are misunderstanding Hospers, Draco," she said feebly, she suddenly seemed dimmed, wounded.

He swallowed hard and used all his patience to hear her out. His eyes a saccade. Flicking from her face to the papers and back again.

She cleared her throat and lifted the papers, searching for the appropriate passage. "Here he says …

"_Those of us who can discipline ourselves and develop habits of concentration of purpose tend to blame those who cannot, and call them lazy and weak-willed. But what we fail to see is that they literally __cannot__ do what we expect; if their psyches were structured like ours, they could, but as they are burdened with a tyrannical superego and a weak defenseless ego whose energies are constantly consumed in fighting endless charges of the superego, they simply cannot do it, and it is irrational to expect it of them. We cannot with justification blame them for their inability, any more than we can congratulate ourselves for our ability. This lesson is hard to learn; for we constantly and naively assume that other people are constructed as we ourselves are…"_

_"_He means that humans should use understanding over judgment." Her eyes rose to meet his. "And I believe that all humans have an innate aptitude to rise above their nurturing." She chewed on the corner of her mouth as she let him process what she had just explained.

But unspoken words hung in the air and rang deep inside Draco's consciousness. In her sweet inflection he heard: "And I need you to believe it too."

o0o

**Tuesday, June 17th 1997**

Draco's mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer as he studied the pale pointy-faced man in the mirror. The young man's dull eyes, gray as ashes, were full of loathing, and his platinum blonde hair mopped his head, falling across his brow to help darken his scowl. Draco barely recognized his own reflection. Over his last year at Hogwarts his body had aged with stressors that should never have been placed upon a young boy's shoulders. He mourned his youth, and found it easy to hate the hard man in the silvery glass.

Forcefully he tore his wretched gaze from the looking glass to the water that streamed powerfully from the sterling faucet. Thankfully, the rushing noise seemed to drown out the unrelenting voice of seething antipathy that unsurprisingly reflected his father's stiff brogue.

Cupping his hands together, Draco hunched over the porcelain basin and splashed the cool water over his face. Finding minimal refreshment, he rubbed his lips roughly with his long fingers, before returning to ponder his depressed reflection.

He had been about to choose, his wand lowering, when the choice was ripped from him and the task was over. As he raised his gaze to face the pitiful man in the mirror, he knew he did not deserve anything good.

It was a hard lesson learned.

o0o

**Tuesday, December 20****th**** 2005**

Granger was freshly bathed when she emerged from the adjoining bathroom. Her curls hung in a damp curtain around her heart-shaped face. Her skin was flushed from the heat of her bath. She was donning a navy jumper that swallowed her torso, white, cotton boxer shorts that hugged her rear and brown, wool socks that hung loosely around her ankles.

Draco watched her hurry to the warmth of her bed, and decided she had very nice, very shapely legs. His breath caught and he found himself entranced, unable to tear his eyes from her.

Granger pulled the blankets over her bare legs, shivered dramatically and then as she tucked herself in, a smile ran the camber of her lips.

"Have something to say, Draco?" she said without ever meeting his gaze.

He snapped his chin up and swallowed thickly. As he saw it, he had two options: Give a compliment or an insult. However it was far more difficult choice than that. He knew what he should say, would say, by force of habit, but it was wrong and hurtful. More importantly, it was untrue. Yet as the silence ran on, he could not bring himself to compliment her. She was still Mudblood Granger in his head. No matter how pretty she was. And she was not show-stopping or newsworthy. But pretty. Simply.

Any person with eyes would be forced to admit that.

Pressing his lips together momentarily, he began, "You have …er" _Nice legs. Nice smile. A freckle on your thigh._ Anything that was good and complimenting. "Um, you're wearing men's muggle clothing." There. That wasn't hurtful or malicious. Not really flattering either, but it was the best he could offer.

She let a full grin and a breathy chuckle before biting her bottom lip. "Keen observation, Draco. They are my father's. He passed a few years ago. These make me feel safe."

"Whatever catches your fancy Gra—Her-my-oh-knee." He said superciliously as he stretched his form on the lumpy sofa. He preferred to sleep on his stomach, with his arms hugging the pillow, and fleetingly he wondered why.

"What makes you feel safe?" Granger's voice rang through his thoughts.

He lifted his head and peeked at her. He wanted to give her an answer. He truly did. But the fact was he did not have one. "Go to sleep," he growled instead.

He heard her sigh resignedly and then extinguish the oil lamp near her bed. "The wood is getting low; we'll have to get some tomorrow."

He grunted in reply.

"Goodnight."

Draco didn't respond because he didn't know how. He was mentally exhausted. His mind racing with new thoughts. Hospers said 'understanding over judgment,' but all his life he had only known judgment. He'd been judged, held to an impossible standard, and so his natural reaction was to do the same to others. Especially her. He had judged Granger. Labeled her. Damned her. Yet here she was, trying to help him, teach him, and be friendly. She was showing him a new kind of way and he wasn't entirely sure he was capable of viewing the world through her eyes. He did not deserve her kindness because he had never treated her with it. And he couldn't understand why someone as good as she, would want to help a tyrant, a bigot, a stupid selfish...

Maybe tomorrow he would try to figure it all out.

Maybe tomorrow he would try to not see her as a dirty foul creature.

But a woman. Because that's the only label she deserved from him.

Particularly because figuratively, he wasn't even a man.

o0o

**Tuesday, March 22****nd**** 1983**

"…and after Prince Draconis slayed the beastie, he returned to castle's tower to kiss the sleeping Princess and save her from her eternal slumber." His mother's voice was soothing. Lulling and safe.

As her son fought a thousand nods, she was curled in his bed and whispered adventures. His tiny, chubby fingers rubbed her earlobes while he listened intently, hypnotized by her reverberation and storytelling.

"The Princess lay serenely on a bed of silk, her long hair flowing over the shams, sleep pinking her cheeks and as Prince Draconis knelt beside her, he knew he'd never seen a more beautiful princess. He bent his head and placed a kiss on her red mouth and settled back to watch her awaken.

"Her lashes fluttered and when her eyes fully opened to rest on Prince Draconis, she smiled."

Narcissa paused to make sure that Draco was asleep. His fumbling on her ear had ceased and his breathing was deep and rhythmic.

"And they live Happily Ever After." She kissed his forehead and carefully extracted herself from his bed, tucking the blankets around his small form.

With one last caress of his cheek she smiled. "Sweet Dreams, my Prince."


	4. Wednesday

o0o

**Wednesday, September 16****th**** 1992**

"Nobody else's mum sends them treats every week, Draco," Gregory said as he reached for a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

"Think I'm a toff, do you?" Draco sneered and tossed a Cauldron cake to Vincent.

"No, just lucky," Gregory replied and opened a package of Peppermint Toads. "These are my favorite."

"Can I have another Cockroach Cluster?" Vincent asked His brown eyes pleading.

"Naturally, I think Mother only sends them for you anyhow. Greg and I despise them," Draco stated and pushed the pile towards Vincent.

"I wish my mum would send me treats," Vincent said sadly.

"Me too," Gregory added wistfully. "And I wish my dad would buy me a new broom too."

"Well lads, there is only one great mother in the world, and she rightfully belongs to me. Sorry for the bad luck." Draco smirked triumphantly. "There's only one chocolate frog left, Greg; you should take it, but I may want the card." Draco looked down his nose at Gregory and Vincent in a perfect imitation of Lucius.

o0o

**Wednesday, December 21****st**** 2005**

"Up." The command was there in her imperial voice. As if he was a trained chimp. Granger was standing akimbo above him, her heavy burgundy cloak wrapped around her.

"My _choice_ is No." He opened one eye to glare at her and then nuzzled his face back into the pillow.

"We need wood for the fire, Draco, and today, you are going to earn your warmth." She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently.

"Before breakfast?" he moaned.

"No, silly. There is toast, bacon and eggs on the stove. Also, on the table are some clothes that will make your task easier than if you were wearing a cloak."

"I don't want to do anything today, Granger. So sod off."

"Fine. Freeze then." She pivoted. "But you should rise and help me outdoors. I think it will be _good_ for you."

"Circe, you are worse than a wife. Nag, nag, nag." He complained while he sat up and stretched. Deciding that the lumpy couch was really more comfortable than it appeared.

And Granger laughed. At him undoubtedly. A warm and rich, mezzo-soprano in the angel choirs. That is, if Draco knew what an angel's song sounded like. He didn't really.

"The trouble with you, Draco, is that you are used to passive aggressive demands. So you think a suggestion is a demand. I don't nag, I suggest. It leaves you with all the freedom to resist without having to worry about the withdrawal of compassion."

"How many times do you suggest?" He did not want to deal with her or her sodding compassion today.

"Until you do what you are supposed to do" –she laughed again—"or until you tell me to shut it."

"Which you will do?"

"Which I will do."

"So…"

"Eat and dress, I will be outside waiting for you. You have fifteen minutes." She smiled sweetly at him.

"Shut it." He scowled and moved to the stove, preparing to serve himself.

"The door? But of course." Her voice was sing-song and she did shut the door. Quite soundly.

He decided that she was bossy. A bossy woman. And he _understood_ why; it was not a judgment. Not at all. And if Hospers ever came around to inquire exactly how Draco came to that conclusion, he would simply dare the philosopher to spend an entire day under the condescendent of Hermione Granger. Lucky for Johnny boy, he had perished long ago.

As he hurriedly ate his breakfast, glad that it was still warm, he deduced that Granger must've been up a while before him, for the one room cottage seemed rather tidy and warm. She was even considerate enough to wake him directly after she cooked his meal. Thinking he might appreciate her more than he ever intended, he forked a fried egg into his mouth and his eyes found the work clothes that she'd left for him.

There were leather work gloves, a pair of white, long underwear. A charcoal, long-sleeved cotton shirt, black, steel-toed boots, and camel, suspender overalls. Of course the only reason he knew this was because she left numbered notes on each one describing their purpose in neat detail and in what order he should put them on.

Draco decided that he would wear the blasted clothes and do her sodding bidding. She did _suggest_ that it would be _good_ for him. So he was sure that her agenda for the day consisted of menial labor for him to perform as part of his psychotherapy. Truth was, he thought it was brilliant, but he would never let her know just how much.

Once he followed the directions written on the parchment though, he cursed her and any progeny that she would undoubtedly produce. He looked…absurd. The long underwear and cotton shirt were constricting against his body and the overalls hindered his movements. The boots were cumbersome and well, the gloves itched his palms. Nonetheless his contestation was 'Chin Up' as he exited the shack with a grim disposition. His brow was creased together, eyes like steel and narrowed, and his mouth set in a firm grimace, jaw tightened. He clenched his fist best he could as he marched purposefully to where he saw her working.

However, upon closing the distance between them, he found she was stacking wood in a strategic pile next to a large stump with a well-honed maul in it.

Her head jerked up and she grinned brightly at him. "Oh, Draco, don't you look handsome!" Mirth glittered in her topaz eyes and she was doing a piss-poor job at hiding her amusement.

"Shut it," he said, but noticed the way she studied him and realized instantly that she did, in fact, find him handsome. And if the way she bit her lip and grinned was any indication, she found him incredibly attractive.

He smirked arrogantly and told himself the only reason he wasn't running for his life was because his boots were just simply too heavy and not because he actually liked her admiration.

o0o

**Wednesday, November 12****th**** 2003**

His arm was on fire. It burned. It burned. It burned.

_Make it stop._

Sweat glistened his forehead, giving his already pale skin an iridescent sheen. His teeth ached from clenching, and eyes burned with fury.

Every time the blazing pain pulsed, he gagged and his stomach lurched.

But oh, the cool porcelain felt so very soothing against his skin. He rubbed his flushed cheek against it, not caring to think how absurd he looked or what nasties may lie on the surface.

The Dark Lord wanted him.

The Dark Lord was angry.

Because Draco had failed.

He had tried to explain himself to Lucius. He really did. But the fact was he had been unable to execute the curse on the muggle couple. The want was simply not there.

Draco did not know why. He hated them. He knew he was supposed to torture them. It was supposed to be easy-- an easy task.

But he could not do it. And he had tried repeatedly.

Now he would be punished for his ineptitude.

"Draco?" His mother's anxious accent carried through the door. "What's wrong?"

"Go away!" he screamed, trepidation weakening his vocal cords.

"I will not. Let me in." Stern, stubborn.

He meant to sneer at the door, a pointless exercise, but the Mark throbbed excruciatingly once more.

Narcissa began to urgently insist that he grant her entrance. The oak door shook and rumbled with her forceful and unrelenting administrations.

He raised his hand feebly and motioned faintly towards the knob.

The door sprung open and his mother gracelessly faltered into the lavatory. "Oh, gods, darling, is he calling for you?" She moved to the sink and ran a cloth under the cold water.

He half-nodded, fully-winced.

She knelt before him and began to wipe his face, her azure eyes panicked and searching. "Choose not to go. Please choose not to go," she pleaded.

"Mother, if you are against him, why do you stay?" It was a juvenile question for which he had always wanted an answer.

Narcissa offered a sad smile. "Because I love your father unconditionally. And when you love someone, you follow them anywhere."

o0o

**Wednesday, December 21st 2005**

They had been at it for three hours. Or more accurately, Draco had been at it for three hours. If you didn't count the hour they broke for lunch.

He managed to splinter the bark, miss it, and fall six times. But never once was he able to correctly split the round in half.

She had said that the maul weighed nearly three kilograms giving it a faster swing and velocity, which was more essential than mass in producing results. He thoroughly believed she was a skilled liar. And a sadist.

Because she was beaming with comedic delight and obviously finding immense pleasure in his pain and humiliation.

He raised the maul above his head and slammed it down with all his strength.

"You missed again."

He glared at her.

"Because you won't listen to me and do it right," she said sardonically, her face blank and she was standing really close to him, making him uncomfortable.

"If you are such a master of this art, Oh Mighty One, then let me see you do it." Draco stepped away, his anger flashing.

To his chagrin, she shrugged and began to remove her cloak. "Hold this and sit over there." She motioned to the fence she had been perched on. "And watch closely."

He did move to the fence, dropping her cloak along the rail, but leaned casually against the post and watched her with malicious glee.

Hermione positioned herself slightly uphill front the round to be split, her feet shoulder-width apart. She held the maul at near waist level, elbows comfortably bent. Her left hand was settled at the base of the handle, her palm facing her and her right hand was at the neck, thumb next to the maul head, and palm facing opposite of her.

Her topaz eyes fixed intently on the round. Then quickly she flexed her knees and bent slightly at her waist. Abruptly the maul raised overhead, her arms raised high, back straight, knees similar as she rose up on her toes. Her right hand slid down the handle to meet the other. With no delay, she began a forceful downswing, bending at the waist and knees again. At the very last instant she pulled the mall back toward her very slightly using her abdomen and legs.

With great accuracy, the maul split easily through the round, creating two equal parts, ready to be burned.

Draco's jaw was touching his kneecaps and his eyes were wider than he ever thought possible. Finally he found his voice and asked her, "How did you do that?"

There it was, the eye-roll and he wanted to spit in her face. "I told you already, a hundred times today."

"Nag," he said, and then smirked. "Oi, I've just found my happy thought."

"Oh?" she asked brightly, setting up another round.

"Yes, you bound tightly to a chair, a delightful green gag shoved between your pretty lips to keep your fat mouth shut." He was too caught up in his imagery to notice that he complimented her.

Luckily for him, she was too tactful to mention it, instead she giggled and handed him the maul. "Be realistic, Draco, a simple _Petrificus Totalus _would suffice brilliantly." Her tone was playful.

"Where's the fun in that? At least with binds and a gag I get the pleasure of watching you struggle." He laughed then. A real laugh as if they were third years telling jokes over dinner. Clear and melodious, it was, shocking even himself. "Besides, you are quite fetching when you are angry." He adopted a stance similar to hers.

"Wow, two compliments in a day? Are you feeling alright, Draco?" She smiled widely at him. Showcasing a row of perfect white teeth.

He scowled at her. "I did no such thing; you must be off your rocker. Now tell me how to do it again."

She giggled. "Okay. Listen closely. _Do not_ allow your vision to wander from the striking point during the swing. Focus your attention on striking all the way through the piece to the very _bottom_. Strike toward where you want the blow to finish. Visualize the maul head penetrating the piece completely and visualize the pieces falling away. _Know_ that the wood will not resist the blow. Anticipate success." Her voice was wistful, mesmerizing.

He did envisage and anticipate.

And he succeeded.

o0o

**Wednesday, July 13****th**** 2005**

According to the Goblin he had met with in secret, he had 2,371,581 Galleons in an account. And five Knuts. If the wee creature was to be believed, Draco was the beneficiary of an unknown person's wealth upon their demise.

The only clue Draco had to this person's real identity was that he was a wizard and was known at Gringott's as Mr. X.

Nonetheless, Mr. X's will clearly defined that his entire estate with the exception of a tiny home somewhere in the North, could only be procured by none other than Draco Malfoy.

He was tremendously confused, but decided to leave the account untouched.

Until a rainy day of course.

But what really perplexed him was why the home in the North had been inherited by Hermione Granger.


	5. Thursday

o0o

**Thursday, March 2****nd**** 2000**

The wood of the handle was smooth against his palms, the crisp air kissing his face and the rising sun painted oranges, pinks, purples and blues reaching towards him from infinity. As Draco rode the zephyr his only thought was that if he could crash into morning he would find wild, euphoric freedom.

o0o

**Thursday, December 22****nd**** 2005**

She had abandoned him. He was sure of it. Precisely as he predicted she would.

He had risen to find her gone. No note. No breakfast. So he had dressed in the clothes she had given him and chopped wood. Because it helped him work out his frustrations. Helped him think clearly. But most importantly, helped him feel useful; _good_.

She hadn't returned to make him lunch. So he used a knife and cut a couple of slices of bread. He found a jar of something called 'peanut butter' and made him a something to eat, just as he had seen her do so many times before.

He decided it was tasty, but stuck to the roof of his mouth. So he deduced it was a concoction to silence someone for a short period of time. He made a note to shove a spoonful down Hermione's throat next time she began to nag. That is if she ever returned.

Which he doubted tremendously.

After an inspiring debate with his stomach, he concluded that since he was alone, he had no immediate need for conversation. So he ate seven more sandwiches

It was late in the afternoon, and his boredom was at its zenith. This was invariably a dangerous situation for him. He started off pacing the large expanse of the Cottage. It was one open room and then an enclosed washroom. Not much to speak of or look at really. Then he rearranged the bookshelf in alphabetical order. Then he managed to wash the cup, knife, and plate. By hand. Like a muggle. Before he knew it, he had scrubbed the kitchenette clean, folded his robes and blankets and put them in a trunk near his sofa. The entire shack was immaculate.

He felt…accomplished.

However, as he surveyed the room, admiring his work, he heard the distinct sound of hooves in the distance.

_They've found me._

Immediately he cursed Hermione and dashed for the trunk holding his cloak. He searched the pockets thoroughly, but came up empty handed.

His wand was gone.

So he was stuck in a shabby shack defenseless. Only then did it occur to him that she had set him up. Let him get comfortable. And Merlin, he had trusted her. For some strange reason he had trusted the Muggleborn witch. Had believed that she wanted nothing more than him to achieve redemption.

He called himself a pitiful fool and many other things besides.

But as his breathing became deep and erratic, he could only wonder at the constricting pain of betrayal in his chest.

Through the window, he could see a cloaked figure galloping closer at break-neck speed.

He backed to the wall and decided he would not go down without a fight.

But then…

"Draco?" Her sweet song rolled over him in waves of light.

He felt foolish, angry, but surprisingly relieved.

As he marched through the door, he found her dismounting a magnificent Palomino gelding.

"Where have you been? What were you doing? And where in the fuck did that come from?" He thundered as he came to her side. He wanted to grab her, shake her, and strangle her. And something else he couldn't quite identify.

Hermione blinked at him with surprise, her cheeks red from the cold wind, and her feral hair in a messy cloud around her shoulders. Topaz eyes glistening with wonder. "Oh Draco, I'm so sorry, I just went to the village for supplies. I didn't mean to worry you."

He hated her, because he had been worried.

o0o

**Thursday, June 15****th**** 1995**

The entire castle was thick with early summer's unexpected humidity. His school robes stuck to his body uncomfortably, sweat dampened his hairline and when the weight of the accumulation became too heavy, beads ran down his cheeks and dripped from his straight nose. However, amidst the sweltering heat of the afternoon, tensions ran high and there was a generous stench of stale foreboding that made Draco feel suffocated. He wanted to escape.

He just couldn't seem to catch his breath.

There were not many places to escape the heat inside the castle, and so the majority of the student body had found refuge in the cool shade of the ancient building and its gardens.

Luckily, they had decided to abandon the lake. So that was where he found his solitary peace.

It was a deep lagoon, creeping just barely into the Forbidden Forest to keep the water secluded and fresh.

Glancing around once more to be sure that he was indeed entirely alone, he began to divest of his clothing. Then without another thought, he ran with childish abandon into the water until he could no longer tread, and under he went.

Slowly, he let the air held in his lungs carry his weightless body to the surface. Once his face broke free, he relaxed his muscles and simply floated.

Because there in the water, his worries disappeared and he knew with absolute clarity where his place was in the world.

Nothing but an object of matter. Simply molecules, cells, and energy. A carbon-based life-form floating along the ripples of space and time.

With nothing on its mind but the glorious sound of silence.

o0o

**Thursday, December 22****nd**** 2005**

Hermione was darning a wool sock as she tip-toed the rocker into motion. Her chocolate curls were resting on her right shoulder, showcasing her fine features glowing in the warmth of the fireplace. Her mouth was relaxed in an endearing pout and her topaz eyes glittered with private thoughts and concentration. A harmonious humming radiated from her throat.

Draco studied her peripherally and felt greatly perplexed at her menial activity and the foreign tugging at his compressing sternum. He recognized it as longing and he wished he could feel disgusted with himself. Yet, he could not find the will to do so.

He wanted to know a million answers to the billion questions she represented.

Why darn a sock when an easy mending charm was just a wand a way?

Where did she find the sensational gelding residing in the stalls outside?

What did she want so badly that she would have to struggle to obtain it?

Would he ever be redeemable and allowed to leave this cabin?

Did he want to?

He stood and silently crossed to her, his heavy book held gingerly by his fingertips.

"What is that you are humming?" He spoke as gently as he could, not wanting to break the spell of serenity she created.

She paused and let a smile curve her mouth. "Just a song my mother used to sing to me. Is it bothering you?"

Unfortunately, no, it was not bothering him. In fact, he found it to be rather reassuring and it seemed to calm his tempestuously confusing thoughts.

When the shack was quiet he could almost forget the big bads of the world. Including himself.

"What's it called?" he asked instead of answering her.

She bit her lip hesitantly. "It's Gershwin, and rather inappropriate for this time of year."

He raised a puzzled brow and tried not to look down his nose at her.

"Summertime. It's called Summertime." A redness rushed her heart-shaped face and she returned her eyes to her darning.

"Do you know the words?" he asked, he tilted his head letting his fringe fall into his hoary gaze as he studied her nervous movements.

"Yes."

"Will you sing it for me?"

Her blush deepened further, and she shook her head. "Oh no, I'm terribly off key."

Draco felt as if he had left his body when it bent towards her and prepared to whisper into her ear. She smelled of cold weather and lavender. Assaulting his senses. Her aura washed over him in waves making every hair on his body stand at attention. He nearly forgot himself. "Sing like nobody's listening, Hermione. Loud and out of key." Then he laid his book into her lap, careful to mind that his fingers did not touch her person, and placed it so that the parchment with his spidery scrawl was showing between the pages.

He could feel her eyes on him as he crossed to his lumpy couch and settled himself on it. As he faced the back of it and pulled his care-worn quilt over his shoulder, he heard her begin tentatively.

"Summertime. And the livin's easy." Her tone was soft and barely audible. "Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is fine. Oh your daddy's rich," a pause, "And your mother's good lookin'," a smile, "So hush baby, don't you cry."

He heard the rustle of the pages as she slid the parchment from between them. Her rocking had ceased. "One of these mornings, you're going to rise up singin'." Her voice wavered at the end, but she continued again, "Then you'll spread your wings and take the sky." Hermione's breathing was erratic. "But until that day, there's a nothin' can harm you…ohh." She gasped

Draco let his eyes close because he felt good, safe, and liberated. A satisfied smirk traced his lips because he knew the words on the paper were the nicest things he could and would never say.

Besides, he decided that it was okay to enjoy her singing, no matter how terrible it really was.

o0o

**Thursday, September 18****th**** 1986**

He stood as straight as he possibly could before his mother's seated form. His hands were clasped behind his back, his mouth set in firm determination.

"I want a baby brother, Mum."

She leveled her azure gaze on him and pursed her lips to hide her amusement. Her little man was all business that afternoon. "Do you, Draco? And have you thought about what having a baby brother would entail?"

"Yes, I would have someone to play with." Draco began to pace in front of her, like he had seen his father do whilst spying on business meetings. "You are fun, but a little brother would rather catch frogs and chase snakes." Because his mother was rubbish at it. After all, she was a girl.

"I see. But a baby brother would have to share the attention you receive and I'm not sure how you would feel about that. I would have to give him hugs and kisses and tell him bedtime stories. As a big brother, you would have to give those up."

He paused, his eyes wide and stricken. It wouldn't do to have his mother giving his affections to a little brother.

"Besides Draco, a baby brother takes a long time to make, and sometimes, regretfully, you get a baby sister instead."

No, that would not do at all. He was impatient and girls were ridiculous creatures. Like Pansy. Wearing dresses and crying when they scraped their knees or got dirt on their nose. And Pansy screamed at the sight of worms and would not be convinced of the tastiness of a mudpie.

"I don't want a baby sister. Girls are gross," he stated simply, but he then saw sadness darken Narcissa's face and mistakenly thought he hurt her feelings. "Except for you, Mum, you are nice and smell good. I like having you around."

He took her hand in his because he liked holding her hand best of all things.

"I'm glad darling, because I like having you around also." And she placed a loving kiss on his forehead.


	6. Friday

o0o

**Friday, July 2****nd**** 1993**

Draco was stuffed awkwardly in a wardrobe with Goyle, quietly waiting for Zabini's mother to return. Goyle had seen her in nothing but her altogether the day prior and waxed on for hours about the wondrous sight. Draco's curiosity had immediately been piqued and he devised a covert plan to sneak into her room and watch her undress.

Draco gave Goyle a sharp jab with his elbow, signaling that Ms. Zabini had returned, and they both leaned forward, placing their young eyes at the keyholes, anticipation tickling their necks.

Her infamous beauty was quite astounding. Her olive skin was smooth and glowed against her airy coral-colored robes. The exotic slant of her eyes was entrancing, darker than ebony, and her mouth was as red as a ripe apple.

With long, manicured fingers she unclasped the robe and let it slide from her voluptuous form, revealing even more skin. She moved around the bed clad in nothing but a plum-colored brassiere and tap-pants that were hooked to thigh high stockings of the same color as her underthings.

Draco gasped and tried to follow her with his gaze, but the keyhole hindered peripheral vision.

"I can't see her," Goyle rasped lowly.

"Ssh!" Draco hissed, bringing his finger to his lips and scowling warningly at his partner in crime.

But then the wardrobe doors flew open and both boys tumbled out abruptly in a heap of gangly boy limbs on the hardwood floor. Mrs. Zabini stood above them; her elegant brows arched dangerously, her fists on her hips, now covered in a silk, lilac dressing gown.

"Hullo, Mrs. Z." Draco smiled charmingly at her.

Goyle's face was beet red, but he managed a gurgle and kicked Draco's shin none-to-subtly.

"Evening Draco, Gregory." And with a resigned sigh she reached down and tugged each boy up by their ears. "I must say I am ashamed of your behavior. Spying on women is a despicable act. What would your mother say?" She began marching them to find out just exactly what Narcissa would think on the matter, all the while ignoring the boys' resistance and objections.

However, Draco was sure he saw a glitter of amusement in her unusual eyes.

o0o

**Friday, December 23****rd**** 2005**

Hermione had been irritated that morning. She hadn't hummed while she prepared breakfast, hadn't danced around the kitchenette, did not even have the courtesy to speak to him casually.

Instead she set his plate and wand in front of him and told him that he should do her a favor and go to the east of the forest to procure a Blue Fir to decorate for the upcoming holiday.

Alone.

As if it was just another day in paradise and Voldemort only existed in fairytales.

However, he did realize what a leap of faith she was taking, leaving him alone. He did begrudge her for taking his wand, she was trusting him to use it wisely and to leave the Dell alone, and for that he was grateful.

The witch would surely kill him somehow. If not by her oleaginous rhetoric, then surely by sending him out into the wild unknown to fend for himself. Although, she did give him his wand back. So he could properly defend himself against nasties and beasties.

But still, she did like to nag. Whatever happened to his choice? Because he didn't recall her giving him one that morning.

_You will go and get a tree, Draco._

_You will take your wand with you, Draco._

_Be careful, Draco_

_Hitch the sled to the horse, Draco._

_Be nice to Melvin, Draco._

And who gives such a beautiful creature such a horrendous name. Possibly her parents, after all Hermione was a very pretty witch and she had an unbelievably atrocious given name.

He paused and Melvin nosed his shoulder, snorting with annoyance. "I can't believe I thought that either, mate." Because it had been merely days since he had a truly malicious thought, and his feelings towards her, well, albeit confusing, weren't in the least hateful. It was disturbing, but he justified it by the fact he had been celibate for a relatively long period of time and then forced into quarantine with her. He was simply a man after all. Wasn't he? And soon or later, human instinct had to kick in. So really, it was only his innate need for procreation that caused him to forget about years of animosity and ingrained pureblood bigotry. Yeah?

He began his journey again, wand at the ready, ears and eyes alert, but his thoughts remained on the witch.

She had been quite surly with him and he wondered if it had anything to do with his note. He had been fiercely proud of it, since it took him three hours to come up with that mere sentence.

_I'm infinitely pleased that I am receiving bearing to faultlessness at the hands of an adamantine bluestocking rather than the histrionic and fatidic champion Potter._

Perhaps she felt a peradventure and thought his words were nothing more than a lampooning mimesis of her.

It wasn't.

He was simply trying to express his gratitude, but writing plainly: "I'm glad you are helping me instead of Potter" seemed juvenile and tasteless. And wholly atypical for him.

But writing "I'm happy that I'm receiving direction from a bossy know-it-all instead of the drama queen that is Potter," was callous and he was trying in earnest to be benevolent.

Draco sighed resignedly as he arrived to the clearing she had directed him too. He had merely wanted to impress her. Without reason, without ulterior motive. Just _because_. He had been under the impression that it was a brilliant idea, he'd obviously been mistaken.

But as he took in the numerous trees that bordered the forest, he thought he might have another chance to procure her admiration. He would find the best tree to decorate, if it took him all day.

And he told himself it was not because he liked her smile, but because he couldn't bear to hear her nag.

o0o

**Friday, February 27****th**** 2004**

"Ever been in love, Malfoy?" Zabini asked as they left the meeting.

Draco glanced at his friend, carefully assessing the idea. Zabini was the one person with whom he felt he could be himself. "No. I don't suppose I have."

Zabini stopped at the large window of 'The Riddle House' that overlooked the small muggle village of Little Hangleton. Zabini's brows were burrowed in thought. "The only reason those muggles live in ignorant bliss is because they are physically close to the Dark Lord."

Draco gave a quick glance out of the window. "Yes, I suppose they have a twisted luck inhabiting the vicinity near his headquarters. He cannot risk drawing attention to the area."

Moments passed without another word spoken.

Then Zabini raised his almond-shaped eyes to Draco. "I found Pansy."

Without the young man telling him, Draco realized everything that Zabini was trying to convey. He nodded and inhaled deeply."You're leaving then?"

Zabini let a ghost smile grace his lips. "You should too, mate. The Dark Lord isn't right. He's sick. Crazy."

Draco nodded again, but said no more. He couldn't because he did not disagree with Zabini, but he did not agree either.

o0o

**Friday, December 23****rd**** 2005**

It was nearly dark. Draco's stomach was growling, the cold was biting at his marrow, and Melvin was quite unruly.

However, the perfect tree was bound firmly to the wooden sled pulled by Melvin, and Draco's disposition was cheerful.

Little did he know, Hermione was pacing furiously, worry etched on her features and she was wringing her anxious hands. She was sure he had either returned to Voldemort or was lying dead in the snow. She kept vowing that five minutes more was all Draco was allotted before she went to look for him. Her disquietude overshadowing her trust in him.

As he neared the shack, she came running out to meet him, relief sweeping her eyes, but her mouth in a fine angry line. She skidded to a halt when she saw his wide grin of achievement.

"Welcome back, stranger," She said sternly, reaching for the horse and smoothing her hands over his mane. "Unhitch Melvin and I'll take care of him."

Draco shrugged, dismounted, and did what she asked. Before he released the Blue Fir, he watched her lead Melvin away, curiously finding the view amusing. She helped him carry the tree into the house, but told him to put the sled away, her tone annoyed.

When he returned she was standing over the tree, arms bent over her chest, an imperial brow raised, mouth puckered.

She didn't even have to ask what took him so long, her very essence screamed it.

"Blasted tree kept getting stuck on some rather large boulders," he muttered as he threw off his cloak. He didn't have the nerve to tell her he was searching for the perfect tree. Or the fact that it was for her.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Draco narrowed his.

She pivoted and moved to the stove to stir something simmering in a black pot.

"Well, why didn't you sodding levitate it?" Hermione asked scathingly.

"I thought you wanted me to learn the lesson without magic." He scowled at her back.

She momentarily froze and then banged the wooden spoon on the stovetop. He watched her spine straighten as she inhaled what he guessed was a calming breath.

His good mood was quickly evaporating. "Where do you want the tree?"

He thought he heard her mutter something crude that involved placing it forcibly in a part of his anatomy that was made for exiting only, but decided to ignore it.

Hermione then said coolly. "The corner, please. The stand is already setup."

She couldn't possibly mean…His gaze found a rusted red tree-stand in his corner. No, that was _his_ corner and no bloody tree, no matter how perfect, was going to occupy _his_ corner.

There went what remained of his jovial temperament. He marched up behind her with spiteful purpose, ready to tell her exactly where in her anatomy she could shove the Merlin-forsaken tree. She spun on him quickly, but he had her pinned against the stove, nothing but a hairsbreadth of space between them.

Ions crackled between them, electrifying Draco's senses, making waves of stimulating neurons prickle in his blood, and something strange coiled forcefully in his abdomen.

Hermione gasped, her eyes widening with acknowledgement of the natural chemistry tickling their spines, but fixed on Draco's. Whatever words she meant to bite out had vanished on her tongue as it slipped out to lick her trembling lips.

His soliloquy was lost in the addling of his brain, but one thought did prevail.

He wondered if she tasted like a peach.

o0o

**Friday, January 18****th****, 1991**

Draco sheathed his wooden sword and glanced around the corner to the hallway, eyes carefully scanning the shadows for the enemy.

The enemy who consisted of Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini.

He would fight to the death to save the princess in the tower.

Even if he thought the Princess had a flat face and a snotty attitude. But Pansy was the only girl, and henceforth made an acceptable princess.

She said she would kiss her "Hero." So Draco had been sure to put his pet Lizard in his pocket.

The tower door (or more accurately the Nursery door) was just within reach, and the corridor seemed clear, so Draco sprinted towards it.

Suddenly Zabini sprung out from under the sideboard, his sword at the ready. "En garde evil doer!"

Draco withdrew his sword with treacle speed, and knocked the blade against Zabini's in acquiescence. "Stand down, Foe!"

But Zabini merely let an ornery grin span his dark skin, which propelled Draco into motion.

The two boys rounded on each other making sweeps and passes, clanking the wood together in strident, uneven beats.

Until Zabini executed a particularly suave jabbing maneuver and Draco fell to the carpet in a dying heap.

Moans of despair and distress came melodramatically from his young throat.

But a satisfied smirk cornered his cheek; after all, he felt that it was the performance of his life and as an added bonus, he didn't have to let Pansy put her ickies on Buster.


	7. Saturday

o0o

**Saturday, May 7****th**** 2005**

"Why do you stay?" he screamed at her. The carpetbag into which he had been shoving robes dropped from his hand.

"For you, Draco. I stay in this dreadful manor for you!" she said, tears were brimming her lashes.

"Get out!" He kicked the bag at her. "Get your sodding belongings and get the fuck out. You stupid, stupid woman." He just wanted her to leave. To disappear before the Dark Lord's punishment for traitors was carried out.

She stood before him, not wavering, back straight, hands curled into fists at her sides. Narcissa Malfoy did not fear her son. Feared for him, but did not fear him.

He bared his teeth, and grabbed her arms. "I hate you. I want nothing to do with you. So leave," he hissed at her, hoping his unadulterated meanness would break her soul and force her to run away.

Her irises flexed as she stared into his soul. "That's okay, darling, because I love you enough for both of us." Her voice was calm as it always was, breaking only a bit.

His mother was the bravest woman he'd ever known.

"Don't say that. Don't. Fucking. Say. That!" Draco spun from her, pushing his hands through his hair. He didn't want to believe that his mother had betrayed them. There had to be an alternative explanation for her meeting with Severus Snape. She wouldn't work with the Order. She wanted nothing to do with the War.

"But I do love you."

He pivoted to retort to her, but his eyes widened dangerously.

She closed her eyes, the tears overflowed down her flushed cheeks. As she let her lashes rise, she smiled that perfect motherly smile at him. "And I know you love me too. Because when I look into your eyes, I see the dashing prince off to save his princess. I see the goodness that you've chosen to ignore. I see you, Draco. I always see you."

He reached out his hand, wanting to stop it, but it all happened just too fast.

The curse never left Lucius' mouth, but an eerie red light flashed through the room, and then Draco was forced to watch his mother suffer into death.

He could only hold her face and tell her over and over again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

o0o

**Saturday, December 24th 2005**

Hermione wasn't speaking to him.

This was a welcomed silence because he did not know what to say to her.

He had gone to bed without dinner last night, tucking his head under his pillow and pulling his quilt tightly around him.

He had heard her cry though, but didn't understand why. He was never good with a woman's tears; they made him feel weak and that was more than he could comprehend.

He had never felt it before, but he recognized the magnetic pull when their aura's had fused. It was more than magic, more than a spark, it was …disgusting and wrong.

But it hadn't felt sordid or immoral. It had felt good. Bloody good, and Morgana's knickers, he had _felt_. He had felt a powerful attraction to her. One that had left him dizzy and confused. Left his body strung taught, each nerve frazzled and frayed, pulsing with each reverberating batter of his wakening heart.

He hadn't even laid a finger on her either, because really, that would have been just too much to handle.

A lukewarm bath after two hours of cracking at rounds in the yard at dawn had quelled his intensified awareness.

It was a lot to deal with all at once and truthfully, he was afraid. He knew he wanted her in all the ways a man wants a woman. But he couldn't seem to jump that huge, ugly hurdle. She was muggleborn. Her blood was as blue as his, but the magic was dirty. She was supposed to be lower than filth to him, no better than a house elf. He shouldn't want to soil his consanguineous purity with the likes of her.

But oh, that pull, that feeling, that unseen force of chemistry that was like a direct injection to his still heart.

Draco glanced up at Hermione then, through the haze of tension that had been heavy and static since the night prior. It made him very sensitive to her. When she moved he felt it in his being, and he could feel her pulsing breath, smell her delectable scent. Hermione was all around him. It was nearly spiritual. Especially since she currently sat across the room from him. She was reading a book, her chin resting on her knuckles, and a million miles away on some fictional adventure where the Byronic Hero was ideal and went after what he wanted most; the beautiful precocious Heroine who was sensationally out of his league.

o0o

**Saturday, April 6****th**** 1996**

Draco was heavily drowsed under a pain potion, his vision blurry, head groggy, but there was no pain to be felt. He didn't even have the gumption to think of evil ways to get Potter back for that brilliant curse. Lethal and malicious, but brilliant, nonetheless.

There were also pink limes dancing at his feet and he found them immensely amusing. He named them Verne and Jules.

He was just about to catch a dose when he heard voices. A clipped, officious timbre explained its presence quickly and Madam Pomfrey gave an annoyed huff before the click of her square-toed shoes faded into her office.

Suddenly, his curtains parted and a chocolate cloud of feral curls made its way into Draco's fuzzy view.

Large topaz eyes were full of concern and mischief. "How are you feeling?" The girl whispered urgently.

Draco let a lazy smirk lift his cheek, "I'm sensational, thanks for asking." His posh drawl was equally lethargic. "And how are you?"

A cupid's bow mouth pouted forward in mistrust. "I-I'm fine, thanks."

"Lovely weather we are having, yeah? I see the pigs found it tremendously ideal for taking to the sky." He motioned to the ceiling nonchalantly.

The witch's eyes widened with disbelief, and her mouth thinned across her smooth face, obviously trying to keep her hilarity at bay. "Yes indeed, Malfoy, pigs are certainly flying today."

o0o

**Saturday, December 24****th**** 2005**

Evening had torn down the sun in the west, but they still had not spoken a word. Hermione had made herself a sandwich using the peanut butter and Draco had not warned her of the consequences. His validation was that she had purchased the substance and therefore knew its effects.

However, the blue fir was dressed only in unused fairy-lights and Hermione's melancholia was thick. It relentlessly clawed at her lungs. He only knew this because he felt it too.

So then he forced his body through the invisible, stagnant cloud of apprehension and yanked the book from her hands, "Hermione, talk to me! You are making me feel…weird." He winced and lowered his voice. "Bad weird."

Her small hands gripped the chair, but her body moved forward and she took a deep breath. "It's called guilt, darling." Her nose scrunched up and her eyes were hard. "It's a magical emotion. One that festers and eats at your soul, but congratulations, Draco, seems your conscience decided to finally make a home in your black heart." Then with a quickness, her hands tore the book from his fingers and she settled back into her chair.

He sighed. "If this is guilt, then it's unfounded, as it is I do not know how I've wronged you today." Because he truly did not know what he had done to sadden her so. "Was it the note?"

"No, the note was…strangely…lovely." She crossed her arms and focused on the fire.

"Are you still upset because I was gone for so long yesterday?" he questioned lightly.

Another deep sigh. "No, that's not it. I think I know what really took you so long."

"Do you?" He raised a weary brow; she couldn't possibly know that it had taken him hours to select such a perfect specimen.

A faint smile and a flash of her eyes told him that she did, in fact, know.

"You do," he stated. "Well, shouldn't we decorate it then? I reckon, that's why you had me fetch it, right?"

Hermione raised her eyes to him, and there was brightness in those dismayed jewels. She smiled feebly and rose from the chair. "I just have to get the box" she whispered.

When she returned, he noticed a bounce in her step and excitement on her face. As if she was a small child, she quickly tore off the lid. "Come pick one."

So he knelt beside her carefully, and perused the box until at last he found a large round ornament of blue spun glass. He reached his eager fingers at it when they briefly brushed against her tiny knuckles. An electric shock rippling with hormones and interweaving neurons bit at his fingertips and tore quickly at his arm to stab at his gut. He jerked back and stumbled onto his bum in a very unflattering manner. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, his body scrambling to the safety of the sofa and he was unable to comprehend how such exquisite pleasure could manifest from one little brush of skin. The soft, silky smoothness of alabaster mud. Before he could recover from the phenomenal majesty of the briefest contact, his brain was assaulted by a malevolent hiss that suffocated him, reminded him: _don't touch, don't touch, don't touch_.

Just as suddenly her cheerfulness was replaced with cutting anger; her skin was flushed red with it, eyes glowing dangerously, and her mouth –gods, _that mouth_-- was set in a fierce pout, and a slight tremble was all it could allow.

She stood fast, and the fire place roared, flames jumping from the hearth. Her book flew into the wall and random objects lifted, swirling amidst the intensely charged air.

Draco quickly twisted to his feet, his hand itching for his wand, for the vision before him was dangerous.

"I'm just like you!" she screamed unexpectedly. Her hands were balled into fist at her side, her aura brightened visibly and her lovely hair coiled against the feral static.

He couldn't think or move. But felt his head shake, telling her she was nothing like him. It was as if he was suspended in time and space without gravity or sense. Programmed to react in accordance with old prejudices.

With quick steps she was in front of him. "Can't you see that?" She held out an open palm and pieces of iridescent glass were imbedded in her palm and her blood was bright and crimson, swimming around the broken ornament, her skin demanding to heal.

No he couldn't. He only saw her and the untamed magic swirling through the shack. It was foul and wild, chipping at his bones with uncultivated newness. It frightened him considerably and hindered his attraction towards her until he no longer could recognize it.

Dirty magic. She was filthy magic. It was new and undomesticated. Out of control. Nothing like the millenniums of curbed magic fused with his blood. His magic was old, tamed, perfected by years of pure wizardry. Didn't she recognize that?

Blinding whiteness flashed and his glass on the harvest table exploded, raining drops of water everywhere. Her rocking chair made loud creaking complaints as it moved in an erratic rhythm.

Then she sucked in a wrecked breath, her gaze lowered. "Touch me and see. Just once."

"No," he protested weakly, "no." He backed away from her, his eyes dark, his heart thrashing wildly.

Hermione stalked forward, relentless. "My heart beats just like yours, my bones ache, my brain learns, my tongue tastes, my eyes see, my skin feels, Draco. Just. Like. You."

He knew that, but she was so close and it blurred the lines and the lump in his throat represented so much of the past that he couldn't swallow it.

His legs bumped the table and he stumbled against it, but she was still there, and his wand was just too far away.

"Draco." He flexed his jaw and let his burning eyes meet hers. "Touch me."

"I don't want too, you're…you are…" He gulped for a breath he couldn't catch and couldn't fathom what precisely she was.

"Yes you do, I've seen the way you look at me." She smiled then, but it was sad. "Don't you feel this…this thing between us?"

He nodded because it was there again. That increasingly familiar awareness burst forth from it's restraints. The spark of chemistry that shocks the brain making his whole body hum with adrenaline. It dizzied him, made him forget that she was muddy and dirty and that she wanted to get it all over him. It made him feel delightful and anxious.

Her chest rose and she took a shaky breath, her eyes glistened with calming tears. "Then touch me," she whispered, her voice busted, perhaps afraid.

He nearly did. His hand lifted without any reservation, and he felt the anticipation swirl in his gut. Immediately he let a strangled groan and rubbed his face roughly. "Get away from me," he said lowly from behind his hand.

"Touch me."

"I. Can't!" Because it would mean too much. It would be the turning of a leaf, choosing a new road and he could never look back. His life would change, forever connected to that touch. His brain was chaotic and absurd, trying to take in all that was around him. Keep his wits in order and be logical. But she smelled so bloody nice.

"You can do anything, Draco. Touch me," she encouraged, breathlessly.

"No!" he screamed at her.

"Touch me!"

"NO!"

"TOUCH ME!"

His lip curled and a ferocious growl erupted from his throat, but his palm pushed roughly at her collar-bone. She gasped as his cold fingertips smoothed over her skin, his eyes flickered to hers and he clenched his teeth as her searing heat waved over his hand. As he pushed his palm over her pulsing jugular to her nape, his body constricted desperately, as electrons prepared to move between them. Draco released a terrified breath; his eyes crushed shut, his teeth clenched, and his fingers tangled into her silky curls.

"So soft," he whispered, drawing a faint breath, marveling at the texture. He knitted his fingers through and pulled hard.

Hermione whimpered and stumbled, but Draco snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her tiny frame flush against him. He let out a desperate sob, his still lids painfully closed, and he tried to focus, but the rush of adrenaline pounded in his eardrums. His nerves throbbed erratically, giving his flesh a race of goose-pimples.

As he pressed his palms into her pliable flesh, his mouth became dry and his legs became shaky and great shivers of delight racked his bones.

They seemed to move on their own accord, his hands. Pulling hard along the curve of her spine, clenching tightly at the luxury of her buttocks, squeezing urgently at the suppleness of her breasts. All the while, feeling the blood boil hot with desire, marveling at the sound of his beating heart. She just felt so good against him. Like her body was designed to correspond with his.

It was overwhelming, the rush of ambivalence, because although he was joyful for his choice and the wonderful consequences of it, he felt all the emotions he had filed away and forgot about.

He grieved for his mother, hated his father, and missed his friends. For the first time in a decade, his carefully constructed walls crumbled to his feet and he sobbed pathetically against the warm comforting flesh and blood in his arms.

Hermione.

Who, as he opened his tearful eyes, he saw was nothing more than molecules and atoms, neutrons and protons, curves and planes, fresh scents and soothing words. She was simply a woman.

She clutched at him and smoothed her hands through his hair and wrapped her body around him, all the while praising him.

With a gentle tug at her curls, her head tilted and brown-gold met silver. Her cheeks were rosy and streaked with tears, her mouth red, but she gave him a smile.

In the quiet, calm shack, his throaty words bounced off the walls with an echo. "I'm sorry, Hermione." Because he was, for everything. For being a coward, for being a horrid son, for hurting people. For not seeing her, as she always wanted to be seen, as she worked so hard to be recognized as, a woman.

Her lashes fell and she nodded in acknowledgement, "I forgive you, Draco."

He raised a finger and pushed a stray curl from her cheek, his eyes on her mouth. "I'm going to kiss you," he whispered.

Her eyes widened. "You are?"

"Yes. Because I want to." As he lowered his mouth to hers, he hesitated as a last protest gasped against his mind, but he pushed it down and swallowed it before his lips met hers.

Her lovely mouth was pliant and eager, full of discovery and nectar. She opened immediately to him and Draco felt as if he had kissed her for a thousand years, and yet each swipe of her tongue was brand new.

To Draco, it was a preview of his life to come, where he was the ideal Byronic Hero and she was the beautiful precocious Heroine who was sensationally out of his league.

o0o

**Saturday, August 14****th**** 1982**

"Now listen carefully, Draco." Lucius said sternly, before handing his son the dripping ice-cream. "A Malfoy never cries for what he wants, he simply asks, and if that doesn't work he then bargains. Never cries. Understand?"

The young boy nodded and reached for his hearts desire. A sweet, refreshing confection on a hot summer's day. He didn't really care what his father was sprouting. After all at that age, life is simple, and he was happy as a lark. To him life would always be that way.


	8. Christmas Day

"_He was not at all an unpleasant person really, but clever, quick, proud, passionate, and ambitious. He was one of those people who would be neither a follower nor a leader, but only an aspiring heart, impatient in the failing body which imprisoned it." – concerning Kay in T.H. White's "The Once and Future King"_

o0o

**Christmas Day, 1986**

Draco's gifts remained unwrapped, ignored, disdained. The abundance should have been overwhelming, but the lack of his heart's true wish left little to be excited about.

He refused to even touch them, because he concluded that if none of them were living, breathing entities, he had no use for them.

So he sat in a petulant vigil, with his arms crossed resolutely and a pout on his mouth. His large, grey, child eyes were bright with an impatient tantrum waiting to be thrown.

Then, the subtle turning of the knob and the swinging creak of his bedroom door turned his querulousness into inquisitiveness and he slowly crawled to the foot of his bed. He meant to cautiously, gradually peek over his gifts, but a whimper caused him to duck.

_But a whimper…_

Shifting to his knees, he used the bedpost for support and a covert, although realistically it offered little concealment. There upon his bedroom floor was a long-haired Weimaraner puppy, sniffing its surroundings charily.

Draco sprung from his spot, landing spryly a few feet from the puppy, and with youthful eagerness, picked it up from the stomach and brought it up to face level.

A humongous, ecstatic grin broke across Draco's face as the pup pressed its cold nose to Draco's pointy one.

_Buster_.

o0o

**Christmas Day, 2005**

Draco had not stopped touching her. It would seem that once he began, he found he could not. Or would not. Either or, but really, it was simply the fact he did not want to. The feel of her against his bones was comforting and he was not emotionally prepared to break the connection of reassuring humanity anytime in the near future.

What began as a desperate clutching of a profound kaleidoscope of emotions (affection anger, attraction, fear, sorrow and regret) ended in a subtle clasping of sweaty palms designed to correspond accordingly. It was a funny thing, that. The way her small hand fit against his. Her fingers were slender and graceful; it was easy for his long artistic digits to curl around them. So perfectly made that he swore he could feel every line and whirl that her creator printed upon her palm. It was an amazing concept and he barely could fathom it. How did he, Draco Malfoy, a being of all things unholy and terrible --a Death Eater-- come to share a bed with his antithesis?

The fire popped and crackled in the hearth, tamed to nearly embers, and underneath the thick quilts of her bed the temperature was nearly sweltering. Tendrils of Hermione's hair stuck to her flushed cheeks, her mouth was parted and her soft breathing was deep and cadenced. Draco watched her face, as it was tilted towards his, and thought that with little effort, he could drop his head and fuse his mouth on hers. To taste the peach again, to become intoxicated in its nectar. He nearly did, but he feared waking her. She had to be weary from the unintended expelling of her magic. With such a wild and powerful combustion, it certainly would have to take a toll on her corporeally. He could only guess, for he couldn't remember the last time his magic slipped from his control.

Gods, she was pretty.

In a really tragic way, like a care-worn doll. Only beautiful in moments of uninhibited adoration and affection. Broken, bruised, beat around, but loved. Loved to the point that no amount of mending would make her perfect again, but adored more for each memory represented by each stitch. To be never forgotten and always wanted. A rag doll that was needed more than air. To chase away the big bads, to hug when sad or ill, to reassure in times of cowardice.

Hermione Granger deserved to be loved that way. She deserved to be needed, wanted; unconditionally, undeviatingly.

A _good_ love. That never doubted, never strayed, and never hurt.

When her lashes fluttered from blinking eyes, glorious topaz pools that shock the system, Draco returned her endearing smile.

He decided he had something else to be good for, someone else to make proud. He realized that she had always believed in him, had always seen the good and that without her warm hands to melt and guide his cold heart, he would have never Felt again.

He would have remained locked in a dark forever watching life pass him by, never really living it.

"Hi," he whispered.

"Hi," she breathed.

When he lowered his mouth to hers, it was not with a passion of a thousand suns, but with the pied promise that he would try.

_Try._

To be a good wizard that would love her. After all, he was better with her than without.

o0o

**Christmas Day, 2003**

Hushed, urgent voices resonated from the foyer of the Malfoy Manor. The demanding brogue of Draco's mother and the nasal, bored drawl of Severus Snape.

"… you vowed, Severus. I see no reason why you cannot secure this for me. I have given you everything you should need. Have you spoken with the girl? Did she decline?"

"I assure you that I have and she is very hesitant." Snape said lazily.

From Draco's vantage point, he was able to eavesdrop without being noticed and with a side step into the shadows, was able to see only Snape and that he held a black case in his hands with his mother's family crest locking it.

There was a shuffle of Narcissa's robes and suddenly she had rounded on Snape, and began to feign interest in the festive holiday vase on the sideboard. "I do recall you claiming that she had a soft spot for him."

"It is only speculation due to my observation. However, you must admit that he has always been unkind to her. I daresay she is well within her wits to be suspicious." Snape turned to face Narcissa's back.

"Hmm, yes, I suppose she wouldn't be very clever if she wasn't suspicious. It's imperative that she assist us, Severus, you must realize that." When Narcissa pivoted to Snape, there was a needful persistence weakening her beautiful features. His mother was painfully, obviously, very determined about whatever was in the black box.

"I do, Cissa. I do."

"Draco?" Lucius voice boomed from the deep cavernous hallway.

As Draco turned to greet his father, he saw his mother flinch and Snape whisper a charm to shrink the box before he hurriedly pocketed it.

"Ah, Father! I was on my way to fetch you for Mother. Severus Snape has arrived to join us for breakfast." Draco smiled and decided in that instant to forget what he overheard and saw.

He would not damn his mother for her secrets.

o0o

**Christmas Day, 2005**

As dawn bloomed in a spectacle of pinks, purples and greens, Draco awoke again. His palm was still clasped with Hermione's and they were still wrapped in their sweltry cocoon. However, Draco felt refreshed, brand new.

Leaving a soft kiss on Hermione's nose, he released her hand and extricated himself from her embrace. He yawned and stretched his arms above his head, curling his wrists outward and pointing his toes; relishing the feel of his lethargic muscles as they loosened and moved over his bones.

When he unfolded himself from the bed, the cold chill of the shack bit at his flesh in a shocking contrast to the warmth of his haven with Hermione. Thankfully, he still donned his long underwear and he hurried to the fireplace to throw a few rounds onto the hearth. All the while a familiar hum dancing in his throat.

He returned to the bed and retrieved his sock from the covers. Quietly of course, as not to wake Hermione. His other sock was rogue and he took a peak under the bed. It had found residence under a black box. However, when Draco snatched it up, he saw the familiar crest of the Black family. Silver and bright, reflecting the morning sun. Gingerly, he pulled it from its spot and marveled at it.

He set it on the harvest table without opening it and prepared himself a cup of tea. As it steeped, he simply stared at the box. Afraid of what it contained. Curious too.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of indecision, he sat before it at the table and set his tea cup beside it.

It was the epitome of Pandora's Box. Once opened it would release old spirits. Some would be dark, some would be light. All would change everything.

It wasn't locked and clicked and groaned with age.

He found the deed for the Dell and learned that it used to belong to his mother. The money in the vault was from her share of her inheritance from Grandfather Cygnus. An inheritance, Draco guessed; his mother never indulged to Lucius. It was all there in ink and vellum. A conspiracy to save Draco's life.

He wept.

Simply.

Because although he knew that Narcissa loved him more than anything other on the planet, he was never aware of the lengths she went through to secure him salvation. And through his grief he knew pride. An overwhelming sense of achievement. For his mother had known him better than he had and in her intuition was able to provide him with everything he needed to sustain on his own. She had even betrayed her own husband and begged assistance from Severus Snape and the lovely woman asleep in the bed across from Draco.

He felt ambitious and suddenly knew what he had to do.

Crossing to his trunk he removed the trousers and jumper he had arrived in.

He sighed. It was almost over. He could die. But at least he would know he did what was right. He would avenge his mother. But the right way. With no blood on his hands.

He was folding the long underwear when he heard Hermione stir.

"Draco?"

"Morning." He smiled at her.

She rose from the bed and crossed to him slowly. Concern puckered her brow, but then she spied the black box and as she hugged herself she bit her lip and comprehension softened her visage. "I see you found your box."

"Yes, thank you for keeping it." He tapped it. "Could you keep it a bit longer?"

"Of course."

There was a long pause where he couldn't look at her, but then he turned to her. "I have to go now," he said softly.

Her lips pressed into a sad smile and her large brown eyes began to glister with tears. "I know." She reached out her hand and without hesitation, he clasped it in between both of his palms. Using his fingers he caressed the softness, keen to make his whorls never forget how she felt. "What will you do?"

He smirked good-naturedly and quirked an eyebrow, "Oh you know, Floo Voldemort and say: 'Sorry Mate, I've decided to join the Light. So long and thanks for all the Cruciatus'.'"

She let a breathy, short laugh and dropped her chin, averting her eyes. "Don't joke."

His mirth faded into earnestness, "I have to go be good."

"Yes. I reckon it is that time." She was watching his thumbs make circles on the inside of her wrist and Draco guessed it was because she was hiding her reluctance. It was nice to know she didn't want to let him go, even though she knew she needed to.

He cradled her hand in his and brought her palm to his lips, and as he pressed them into it, her eyes met his and her sorrowful saline escaped past her lashes down the lovely curve of her cheek. "I will come back."

She nodded dully. "I know." Because she knew everything.

"Then I'm going to build a castle."

She curled her fingers into Draco's. "For me?"

"For Melvin."

She smiled widely then. A shiny full expanse of humor bright as a supernova, and a giggle to tremble on her bottom lip.

"There it is, that elusive happy grin." He whispered tenderly and took it and folded it neatly into his heart's pocket. To keep forever because it belonged to no one but him.

He wanted to pull her into himself and embrace her, to soak her up into his soul until she was imprinted upon him for all of eternity, but that was a goodbye and he couldn't bear to say it. It was too final. Too permanent. So he kissed her chastely and released her hand and moved to pull his cloak around his shoulders.

She watched him tacitly as he arranged it properly and once he checked for his wand and pulled on his gloves, he found her gaze again and gave her an affectionate smirk. "I'll be seeing you, Hermione."

"Not soon enough, Draco," she whispered and lifted her hand in a feeble farewell.

As he strolled lazily down the lane, he forced his face forward, embracing the painful cries of his morose heart until he reached the point where the shack would begin to disappear in the horizon. Turning slowly, he knew she was watching from the window. He didn't wave, didn't move. But somehow he promised, one last time, that it was all going to be Good again.

o0o

**Christmas Day, 2007**

The maul crashed through the log in a crescendo, the splits falling into the snow with dull, simultaneous thuds. He bent and retrieved the wood and put it into the stack. He took a deep breath as he stood to survey his achievements: a tall wall of perfectly cut rounds, waiting to be burned.

An adult Weimaraner, called Huskerdoo (a derivation from Buster Deux), sat beside him and gave a soft snort. He patted him and grabbed a few rounds as he made his way back to the shack. Which was quickly transforming into a quaint cottage.

As he entered it, the warmth of the fireplace greeted him along with the sweet aroma of brandied ham and Yorkshire pudding. In his favorite corner, a large blue spruce sparkled and danced with fairy lights and iridescent ornaments and seemed to be supported by an array of colorful packages.

He dropped the rounds into the basket and removed his gloves, coat and boots before he entered the newly enlarged and enclosed kitchen.

A happy grin spread his face as a sweet voice clinkered from the pretty woman at the stove. A new lullaby, one he had written for the miracle cradled in her womb.

"Finished already, darling?" She turned her cheek up to accept his kiss. "I do hope this ham is fully cooked by the time Harry and Ron arrive. I'd hate to have to keep them waiting for their dinner."

He watched her quietly as she rambled, only listening half-heartedly, but fully enjoying the way her ring blinged with each turn of the spoon.

Gods he loved this woman. She gave him so much life. So much to live for. All was well. All was good. He knew peace.

It was a long hard road to get here. To share this quiet, magical moment. He had been disowned by his Father, who now resided in Azkaban, awaiting the Kiss. He had been severely injured and nearly died in the last battle at Hogwarts, and still had a stiff knee that only seemed to pain on rainy days. But it had been worth it. He was awarded with a Merlin First Class and was now considered a war hero. So he could walk the streets of Diagon Alley without shame staining his character. He knew, though, that his acceptance was only because of her, and would be forever grateful.

And although there were moments when he'd lose his head and lose sight of himself. She was always there to let him wrap himself into, to invade until the big bads and beasties returned to their lairs. Funny how she slayed his dragons and rescued him. How she became his savior. How she kept his heart warm and beating.

"--aco, get that dog out of here! Look at this mess! He has completely ruined my floors with his muddy paws! How many times must I ask you to—"

And Draco kissed Hermione quite thoroughly because he had learned that it was the only way to stop her nagging, besides it was what the Byronic Hero always did to his protesting Heroine who was sensationally out of his league.

"…_a house to shelter you, a horse to bare you, a bag of gold to sustain you, and a wife to make it all worth the while. Then, you will truly be human, and may stay so with my blessing forever." Father Winter to Jack Frost._

-_finis-_


End file.
